I knew that today would come, eventually. A hot electrical whiff. A strangled wheeze and then nothing. Dead. No overlocker. Not a stitch more. Sod’s Law that it should happen slap bang in the middle of work overload. I rang the nice chap in Deptford, the one with the capacity to mend anything, and he just laughed (it’s 22 years old) and he was right, it’s cheaper to buy a new one. But that’s not the point. This heavy, cumbersome, often damned annoying piece of hardware’s been with me everywhere: tiny 1930’s flat in Belsize Park, bigger flashier Victorian conversion in Hampstead and 1960’s concrete house in Blackheath. It’s had a major role in so many frocks for so many people.